


Empatheia

by moonblossom



Series: Pyrexia [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha!Omega!John, Alpha!Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Intersex, M/M, Omegaverse, Original Female Character - Freeform, Positive ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 23:04:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1705835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s always known deep-down that he’s not exactly one-of-a-kind, and if his experience can help anyone else out, maybe it’s all worthwhile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empatheia

**Author's Note:**

> Something a little different here - Several folks have asked me about John meeting someone else like him, and I got to thinking that with all the different permutations of sex and gender present in Omegaverse, surely there would be other people with some sort of non-standard presentations in London. And surely, as rough as John’s childhood was, there would be people who had it rougher.
> 
> Warnings for implications of sexual assault and familial abandonment.

The insistent trilling of John's mobile wakes him from a solid slumber. Groaning, he rolls over and glances at the screen, more than a bit confused when it says G. Lestrade.

"Mmmghn?" John mumbles into the phone, wincing at Greg's chuckle. "Sherlock not answering his? Want me to wake him?"

Too late, John feels Sherlock looming inquisitively over his shoulder, making grabby hands at the phone.

"Ta, but no, John," Greg cuts him off abruptly. "I called to talk to you. We've got a bit of a... situation down here. Need your expertise. Can you come?"

John sits up, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head as if he hasn't heard properly. "You can't call some other doctor? It's two in the morning."

"Not that kind of expertise we need." Greg's answer is irritatingly vague, and John just groans and rubs his eyes.

"Fine, be there in twenty."

Sherlock's scowling petulantly, like a child left out of some secret. He burrows under the comforter, clearly preparing for an epic sulk.

"Oh stop it, I have no idea what he wants. Why don't you come along, he didn't explicitly say not to bring you."

Sherlock throws the blanket off his head, his face lit up with curious excitement. "Excellent. You'd only end up calling me and asking for advice anyway!" he says, bounding out of bed and rushing to the closet.

John takes a few minutes to stumble into the bathroom and splash water on his face, trying to wake up. The bracing mint of his toothpaste helps as he chews pensively on his toothbrush. What on earth could New Scotland Yard need him specifically for at this hour?

Sherlock is silent and fidgety the entire cab ride, but John is simply perplexed. He stares out the window, mind foggy with fatigue, until they arrive. Sherlock bounds out and rushes inside, as if he's forgot that it's John they requested. With a sigh, John pays the cabbie and hurries off after him.

***

"John, thanks for coming. We weren't sure what to do here." Lestrade runs a hand through his hair, mussing it further than it already was. He's got circles under his eyes and feverish spots high on his cheeks, setting off John's internal doctor alarm.

"Something the matter, Greg? You could have gone to A&E..."

The circles on Greg's cheeks flush brighter, almost as if he's embarrassed. He shakes his head, making a vague 'follow me' gesture. Sherlock raises a brow.

"Lestrade, are you aroused?"

"Sherlock, do shut up. I am not answering that."

Sherlock crows in delight, but John furrows his brow. Maybe someone in the office has gone into an unexpected heat; but then, Greg's a usually-unflappable Beta who seems to have more of an ability to rein in his hormones than nearly anyone John's ever met.

They get to a small, dimly lit conference room, the type usually reserved for speaking to witnesses, or family of victims. John can see an outline of a person through the frosted glass wall, but can't make out details. His heart sinks into his stomach, but Sherlock shrugs and pats his arm soothingly.

"If he'd called you in to inform you of an incident involving a family member, he'd be far more anxious, not... horny." Sherlock spits out the last word as if it's both amusing and revolting to him and John relaxes somewhat, chuckling quietly.

The DI rolls his eyes, hand on the doorknob. He nods at John, and opens the door.

The girl sitting at the table is of that awkward, hard-to-determine age bracket, John guesses somewhere between fourteen and eighteen. Her hair is choppy and uneven, as if she's cut it herself, hanging lank over her face. She's dirty, in a sort of ground-in, long-term way, common with street kids who don't have regular access to a shower. But what hits John more than anything is the wave of confusing pheromones surrounding her. The source of Lestrade's confused arousal is evident, and John finds himself eternally grateful that he and Sherlock have pair-bonded, dulling the inevitable desperate pull.

"John, Sherlock, this is Evelyn." Lestrade swallows uncomfortably, gesturing to the girl.

"Evie." Her voice is quiet, but determined. She glances up at John, her eyes challenging him to call her by the wrong name.

"Hullo, Evie." He sits down at the table across from her, at a slight angle, hoping to make her feel less threatened.

Sherlock snorts, looking at Lestrade. "You find someone else with..." he inhales, no doubt attempting to study the unfamiliar pheromones, "No; she's not quite like John. But nearly. And just assumed he'd be the best person to speak to?"

At the words _Like John_ , the girl sits a little bit straighter, cocking her head to the side.

"Evie, my name is John Watson. That there is Sherlock Holmes." Her eyes narrow again, no doubt in recognition of Sherlock's name.

"I ain't done nothing! Why's he here?"

Silently, John agrees with her. Why are they here, anyway? As one, all three of them stare expectantly at Lestrade.

"They found her during a raid on a squat house. She's... her hormones..." he clears his throat, clearly unwilling or unable to articulate his point. “Donovan mentioned to the team that brought her in that you might be able to help.” John sighs, not unsympathetically. "Just... talk to her?"

Sherlock sits next to John, eyes eager, fingers drumming on the table. Licking his lower lip, John turns to him.

"Step outside, would you? She doesn't need the Spanish Inquisition right now. Do you, Evie?"

She looks a bit startled being addressed directly, and John wonders how long they've had her here, how long they've been treating her like evidence. Sherlock looks as if he's about to argue but one stern glance sends him stomping off.

"He means well, he's just overly curious."

"Why'd they call you?" Her voice is hesitant, still clearly suspicious. John doesn't blame her.

"Well, I think they guessed that you're not quite what you seem. You're not really an Omega, are you?"

Evie bristles, thin shoulders curling in as though to protect herself. "What's it to you?"

John smiles, pulling on his infinite patience borne of living with Sherlock. He does his best to keep reminding himself of Sherlock, anchoring his mind here, blocking out the insistent nudging of her pheromones, so much like an Omega in heat and yet so far removed.

"What'd you think I am, Evie?"

"Bloody boring Beta, I assume. You walk like something’s stuck in your pants, too big down there to be an Omega, but you ain’t tryin’ to pin me to the wall..." her face flushes and she scowls, no doubt remembering something unpleasant.

“Excellent observations, but not entirely correct.” John realises how much like Sherlock he sounds and smiles slightly before continuing. “Some of that's restraint, and some of it's pair-bonding." He gestures outside the room, where they can see Sherlock pacing through the frosted glass wall, and her eyes widen as she tries to suppress a giggle.

“Him? The rumours, they’re true then?” She seems amused by the tidbit of juicy gossip, and it relaxes her. 

“Some of them, yeah. Can I trust you with that secret, Evie?” She smiles shyly and nods, clearly unused to being taken into confidence like this. “And another one?”

“Whassat?” She chews absently on one nail, staring at him intently.

“I’m a bit like you, if I’m not mistaken. I’ve got some Alpha parts, and some Omega parts.”

Her face goes blank for a minute, studying him, like she’s trying to determine if he’s telling the truth or trying to trick her into confessing something.

“I’m...” she pulls her finger away from her mouth, “it’s not exactly like that. I’m mostly a Beta, s’what they told me. But...” she flaps her hands around in the air, gesturing vaguely to the pheromones that are driving everyone crazy. “I’m _always_ like this. Some kind of Omega gland. Ain’t in heat or nothin’, just... yeah. I don’t go all wobbly to fuck. Just smell weird. Since I was about fifteen.”

She’s older than that then, but John still isn’t sure by how much. Seventeen maybe?

“It drove my uncle to..." She trails off again, unwilling or unable to finish her sentence, but looks up defiantly nonetheless.

"Mum said it was my fault, that I tempted him. Said I have a demon inside me. I been living on the streets since then."

John's heart breaks a little. He reaches out, placing his hand face-up comfortingly close to her - not touching, but making it obvious he's there if she needs it. "And, how long has that been?"

She shrugs. “Coupla years, not sure.”

“And you’ve been alone since then?”

Nodding, she moves her hand out next to his, drumming her fingers nervously. The gesture reminds John of Sherlock, grounding him and calming him.

“Can’t exactly stay with other kids for too long... Too much fightin’, too much other stuff.” Impulsively, seemingly emboldened by her own candor, she puts her hand on top of John’s. He squeezes her fingers gently, comforting her.

“I think, Evie, that the DI called me in here to let you know that you’re not alone. I’m sure you know you’re not a demon, but has anyone ever told you you're not broken either? There are resources for you. When was the last time you had a physical?”

She pulls her legs up, feet resting on the chair and knees tight against her chest, suddenly apprehensive again.

“Whatever that first doctor told you, he was full of shit.” That earns John a nervous giggle; she’s clearly not expecting that sort of language from someone in any position of authority. He scowls, a series of particularly nasty thoughts crossing his mind, aimed at all the people who’ve let Evie down. “If you’re willing, if you can trust us, we can find you a doctor who will help you. Some sort of hormone suppressants, maybe? Or see about removing the Omega bits?”

She bristles. “I don’t wanna change who I am.”

John’s heart breaks all over again, his own childhood crashing down around him. He squeezes her hand.

“You don’t ever have to change who you are, Evie. Some biology doesn’t necessarily define that.” She cocks her head, like she’s considering what he’s saying but isn’t entirely sold yet.

There’s a muffled knock at the door. John raises an eyebrow and she nods, quietly.

“Come in, then.”

Lestrade opens the door and shuffles in quietly, followed by Sherlock. John narrows his eyes at Sherlock, who shrugs. Lestrade looks a bit calmer, a bit less red in the face, but John’s not sure how long that’ll last.

“D’you mind if he comes in too?”

Evie’s staring at Sherlock with a new light in her eyes. “You, him?” She gestures to John with a nod, and Sherlock nods back earnestly. “You don’t mind, that he ain’t...”

“I assure you, Evie, whatever John ‘ain’t’ is nothing compared with what John _is_. The same holds true for you, and anyone who tells you otherwise is not worth your time.”

Lestrade blinks, no doubt confused by Sherlock’s uncharacteristically kind and supportive words. John’s heart swells, watching them all interact. He pulls a card out of his pocket and writes down his mobile number and email, and slides it across the table.

“We’ve found you a doctor, someone willing to chat with you tomorrow morning.” Lestrade interrupts, clearly torn between helping Evie and getting out of the room. “Do you have somewhere to stay tonight? If not, we can just... conveniently forget you’re in this room. There’s showers downstairs, if you need.” He places a pile of paperwork on the table between them, and John glimpses the corner of a referral slip for a doctor and a referral to social services.

She bites her lip, studying the DI carefully.

“Evie, you can trust Greg. He’s just trying to help you. I’ve got to get Sherlock here home before he turns back into a pumpkin.” She grins conspiratorially, and John feels a weight lift off his shoulders. “But if you ever need to talk to someone, call me, yeah? I don’t care if it’s...” he looks down at his watch, groaning. “If it’s quarter after three in the morning. You call me.”

“Thanks.” She reaches for the card, unfolding slowly, defences slowly lowering. After a short pause, she grabs the papers from Lestrade, clutching them as if she’s worried they’re going to change their minds.

John smiles at her, feeling oddly protective. “Evie?”

“Yeah?”

“Just remember, you’re not alone, right?”

“Yeah.”

She grins at him, lopsided and utterly guileless, her tough street-kid mask entirely gone for a fraction of a second, and John’s certain she’ll be alright now that she’s got people looking out for her. He feels Sherlock’s hand at the small of his back, soothing and grounding as they head for home. John leans into the contact, exhausted but content in the knowledge that his own experience has come to help someone else.


End file.
